


(then) hand in hand to hell

by damnedscribblingwoman



Series: kings, queens, knights everywhere you look [2]
Category: 12th Century CE RPF, The Lion in Winter (1968)
Genre: Breathplay, Complicated Relationships, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Canon, Sibling Incest, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21925261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnedscribblingwoman/pseuds/damnedscribblingwoman
Summary: His brother loomed over him, caging him in against the wall. "Get to work, princeling," Richard said, his shadow falling over Geoffrey. And at any other time, Geoffrey might have resented it — the order, the tone, the ham-fisted symbolism of being in Richard's literal shadow — but he wanted this and he wanted Richard, and sometimes — seldom, very seldom, just now — he didn't mind being told what to do.
Relationships: Geoffrey Plantagenet/Richard I of England
Series: kings, queens, knights everywhere you look [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/954096
Comments: 25
Kudos: 37
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	1. the worser spirit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueteak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteak/gifts).

> Hope you enjoy it, blueteak :) Happy Yuletide! 
> 
> A huge thank you to Prinzenhasserin for beta-reading the first chapter.

**Nantes, April 1184**

Geoffrey grabbed a flagon from a passing servant and ambled towards the fire. One of his men — a big bear of a Breton named Guy — asked loudly if it was right for a royal duke to steal the precious mead of hard-working men, to which Geoffrey replied that if he found any hard-working men, he'd ask them. This damning pronouncement was greeted with a choir of booming laughter. 

The men who crowded the hall were all of them merry, drunk and happy to be back in Nantes, where there was good food and good wine and bonny lasses willing to warm their beds. For soldiers who'd spent the better part of a fortnight sleeping outdoors, the draughty old castle might not be Heaven, but it was damn well close. Nor were they disturbed by their duke's saturnine mood or unimpressed words. All Angevins were mercurial — it was known — and their lord was, too. It was his way. But he was an able soldier and a liberal master, and if there were those who might call him unprincipled or untrustworthy, those traits had never been in evidence to the men who served under him. 

Geoffrey was well-liked in Brittany. Better liked than any of his brothers, certainly better liked than Henry, whose resounding success in wrestling the duchy into submission had not endeared him to any of its inhabitants. 

Apart from anything else, the Bretons in the hall couldn't help but reflect that since it had been the Lord's will that Duke Conan be defeated by that Angevin whoreson, Henry Plantagenet, it was at least fortunate that King Henry had bestowed Brittany and the Lady Constance to his third son. They didn't have to look very far to see how they might have fared worse.

A startled yelp was followed by a loud smack when a passing servant girl took exception to Prince John's wandering hands. That such an inexpert strike was enough to cause the prince to trip over his own feet and fall on his ass said more about his state of inebriation than about the girl's martial skills. 

The assembled men smirked or scoffed at the scene, but no one openly laughed. No one dared. Not that they were afraid of a whelp who could barely grow a beard, mind, but Prince John had all the vices of his House, without any of its virtues. He lacked the skill and strength to strike back against his betters, so he targeted those below him, and none of the men fancied being used for target practice by a spoiled little shit they couldn't hit back. Though unless they were much mistaken, that may well change before long. It was not for them to say, of course, but it was clear as day that their duke's patience was wearing thin. 

Ignoring John's whining, Geoffrey sank down into an armchair by the fire, willing himself to relax. His whole body ached from weeks on the saddle, and he'd been nursing a headache for the better part of three days. The raids on Poitou had been going well enough, but he would certainly be enjoying them and himself more if it weren't for John. Babysitting him took the sort of mental fortitude that made saints out of mortal men, and Geoffrey had never had any pretensions to sainthood. At the moment, fratricide seemed the likelier outcome.

Their father might well blame John's failings on his young age, but Geoffrey had been younger than that during that first ill-fated revolt against Henry and he'd acquitted himself well enough. So had Richard, come to that, and so had Hal, who'd no doubt have made as poor a king as Johnny, but who hadn't suffered from their younger brother's unfortunate tendency to make everyone around him want to wring his neck. It was beyond Geoffrey why Henry should favour John out of all his children. Why Henry should prefer John to him. No one else shared in the sentiment. No one in this hall, at any rate. 

He leaned his head back against the chair, letting the sound of his men's laughter and chatter and dreadful off-key singing wash over him. They'd all be back on the road soon enough and he was well-advised to follow their example and take this opportunity to rest and relax and enjoy himself, but his mind was too full of things he could not tune out. Too full of road maps and county lines and Richard, who'd yet to strike back against him and John, but who no doubt would — brutally, viciously, efficiently. Geoffrey rather looked forward to it. Kicking a hornets' nest was no fun if the hornets didn't come out to play.

Closing his eyes, he let his mind wander. More had happened at Chinon than that God-awful parody of a family Christmas, and sometimes, late at night, Geoffrey could still feel the ghost of Richard's lips on his skin, the lingering pressure of Richard's teeth on the curve of his neck, the immovable weight of Richard's hands pinning him down. His cock stirred at the memory and Geoffrey opened his eyes, staring at the flames. 

It was the firm, long-held view of men of God everywhere — from London to Rouen to Paris — that Geoffrey Plantagenet was surely bound for the fiery pits of hell. Perhaps there was something to their warnings. 

He was about to rise to his feet and call it a night, when a commotion drew his attention towards the entrance. 

Frantic murmurs spread from one end of the hall to the other when the Duke of Aquitaine was announced, but everyone immediately fell silent when Richard himself marched through the door, two of his knights close on his heels. He stopped a few feet from Geoffrey, his expression dark and forbidding, his hand on the hilt of his sword. A hundred or so men crowded the hall and you could have heard a pin drop. And then John dissolved into giggles, loud and shrill.

"Oh, we're in trouble," he said in a sing-song voice, a giddy grin on his face. To this _thing_, Henry wanted to leave a kingdom.

"Johnny, go dunk your head in a vat of cold water and keep it there," Geoffrey said without looking away from Richard. The hornets had come out to play after all. "Brother, to what do we owe the pleasure?"

"You know perfectly well why I've come."

"You wanted to personally wish us a happy Easter?"

Failing to see the humour in that by virtue of being completely humourless, Richard stalked towards Geoffrey until they were standing nose to nose. 

"Did I or did I not warn you to stay away from my lands?"

The proximity made Geoffrey's thoughts take an unhelpful turn, so he stepped back, smiling congenially and gesturing at the room at large. 

"I've no idea why you should think I've gone anywhere near your lands when you've come to find me right here, in my own hall, perfectly ready to receive you."

Richard smiled back at him, cold and vicious. "Not your own hall, brother. Henry's hall."

The smile died on Geoffrey's lips. That the county of Nantes was still under Henry's control despite Brittany belonging to Geoffrey was the sort of sore spot over which wars were fought — over which wars _had_ been fought — and he did not appreciate being reminded of it. 

"Whosever hall. You have no proof I've gone anywhere near your lands, so kindly spare me your baseless accusations."

"Though say we _had_ led raids across the border," John said, and Geoffrey rolled his eyes. God give him patience. "It hardly seems the height of prudence to come all this way into enemy territory, Richard. Suppose we choose not to let you leave."

John's self-satisfied grin hardly seemed the height of prudence, either. The way Richard looked at him, it was like watching a lion stare down a house cat. Both might be predators, but if it came to a fight, Geoffrey's money wouldn't be on the cat.

No one moved for half a heartbeat and then Richard's hand shot out and he grabbed John by the collar, pulling him to him and lifting up until John stood on tiptoe. Johnny yelped and flailed, but Richard only tightened his grip. 

"I'd advise you to measure your words carefully, little brother," he said, and something dark and ugly twisted in Geoffrey's chest. "Threaten me again and it will be the last thing you do."

The soldiers in the hall watched the exchange with interest, but no one so much as moved a muscle to come to John's defence, and little wonder. John hadn't exactly endeared himself to Geoffrey's men. All of them would gladly watch Richard run him through with a sword. At the moment, so would Geoffrey. Sadly, he wasn't so lost to sense as not to know that John was more useful alive than dead. 

"Far be it from me to agree with Johnny, Richard," he said. "But you've put a lot of trust in my hospitality."

Letting go of John, Richard turned his attention back to him, and Geoffrey pretended that didn't make it easier to breathe.

"I did," Richard said. "Hospitality is a Christian virtue, after all. On that spirit, I've extended mine to your lady wife." Hostility spread across the hall like a wave. Several men rose; more reached for their weapons. They might not care a whit for John Lackland, but Geoffrey or no Geoffrey, Constance of Brittany was their liege lady and they did not forget it. If Richard noticed it, he showed no sign of it, but carried on. "Constance was on her way back from Paris when she ran into my men. Seeing that she was exhausted from such a long journey, they promptly escorted her to one of my castles that she might get some rest. Now, aren't you grateful?" 

Yes. He was all gratitude.

"If you harm a hair on her head—"

"She's as safe in Poitou as I'm sure I am here."

Richard smirked and Geoffrey glared and John opened his mouth to make bad worse. 

"Geoffrey won't trade you for her safety. He won't. I don't allow it. In fact, I forbid it. You're going nowhere until you sign the Aquitaine over to me. Guards, arrest him."

The two Poitevin knights reached for their swords, but none of Geoffrey's men moved, and Richard's smirk only grew more pronounced. Geoffrey _would_ trade him for Constance's safety and both he and Geoffrey knew it. And not out of sentimentality, either. Constance was Geoffrey's entire claim to Brittany.

"John, isn't it past your bedtime?" Geoffrey asked.

"What? You can't mean to let him go. You're to be my chancellor. You do what _I_ say!"

If he murdered Richard and John both, he wouldn't have to be anyone's chancellor. He'd get a kingdom and a crown, and some well-deserved peace and quiet. How was that for a thought?

"Escort Prince John to his chambers." There'd be no shortage of guards eager to follow that particular order. "He is very tired and must rest." 

"No! You can't— Get your damn hands off me. Geoffrey, I command you to— Unhand me this instant, you filthy peasants. Geoffrey—"

John's protests as he was dragged away did nothing to improve Geoffrey's headache. Neither did Richard's smug grin. Geoffrey wished, not for the first time, that he was an only child.

"Welcome to Nantes, brother," he said to Richard. "Come. We have much to discuss."

Turning away without waiting for a reply, he led the way out of the room. Richard's knights stayed behind. Perhaps they'd turn up in some dark corner with their throats slit. Perhaps they'd bond with Geoffrey's men over their shared distaste for King Henry's last-born son. He and Richard had always favoured the former approach — metaphorically speaking, of course — but maybe their men would prefer the latter. In a world where mouthy priests became saints, anything was possible.

The spiral staircase led to a small room where several men were engaged in a game of dice, the prize of which, unless Geoffrey was much mistaken, was Ranulf, one of his squires. Ranulf blushed bright red and elbowed his neighbour to be quiet when he noticed Geoffrey's appearance. 

"Out," he ordered, and they hurried to comply. Ranulf did not meet Geoffrey's eyes, but none of the others looked in the least discomfited. They knew very well that their duke did not care what sins they chose to commit in their spare time, provided they knew their place and did their duty. The state of their souls was a matter between them and God, and Geoffrey Plantagenet was neither a priest nor a hypocrite. Not unless it suited him, anyway. 

The room was small and bare apart from a wooden table and half a dozen chairs. Voices and laughter drifted in through the two narrow windows that overlooked the hall. Sound travelled both ways, of course, but if he and Richard kept a civil tone, they wouldn't be overheard. And if, as was more likely, they didn't, it's not as if anyone would be surprised by the sound of two of Henry Plantagenet's brood shouting insults at one another.

"So," Geoffrey said when they were alone and the door closed, "what shall we discuss? Shall we exchange pleasantries? Share family gossip? I hear Mother sent Father a stag's severed head to celebrate the resurrection of our Lord Christ. What do you suppose she meant by that?"

It wasn't difficult to provoke Richard at the best of times, and Geoffrey had years of practice.

"Keep talking and it won't be the last severed head he'll receive." A rickety chair rattled loudly against the table when Richard pushed it out of the way, stalking menacingly towards Geoffrey. "You will put an end to your ceaseless interference in my lands and you _will_ pay for the havoc you've wreaked, even if you have to empty Brittany's coffers to do it."

"Or what?" 

Years and years of practice. 

"Do not test my patience, Geoffrey. This is not a war you can win."

"Isn't it?" Stepping back, Geoffrey smiled a little wider. "Tell me, brother, do you know whose castle this is? You said it yourself. Henry's hall, Henry's castle, Henry's lands. I'm not saying there's anything to your little witch hunt, but if I _were_ leading raids across Poitou, you might ask yourself with whose support."

"Father's little lapdog. That's a new look on you. Do you perform tricks, too? Play fetch?"

"Did you, for Eleanor?"

Richard smiled. "Here's the difference between you and me, brother," he said, stepping forward, a hand on the hilt of his dagger. "I was always Mother's favourite."

Geoffrey mirrored the movement backwards — aware of being unarmed, aware of Richard standing between him and the door.

"Mother's favourite weapon, you mean."

"Perhaps, but her favourite nonetheless. Whereas you've never been more than an afterthought to everyone in your life, up to and including our parents. In fact, specially to our parents." Geoffrey had years and years of practice provoking Richard. The problem, of course, was that Richard had years and years of practice provoking him too. "Do you think if you jump high enough when he tells you to, daddy will finally love you, Geoff? You're pathetic."

Geoffrey stopped before his back hit the wall.

"Ask me who else is financing my little Poitou excursions, Richard."

"So you don't deny it?"

"Constance isn't the only one who's been making frequent trips to Paris. And mine have been far more profitable than hers. Far more pleasurable, too."

"You can't use him to hurt me."

"Can't I? Let's find out. You think you're the only one of our father's children Philip spreads his legs for?" 

"I've told you. I wouldn't care if he spread his legs for John. It's nothing to me. _He_'s nothing to me."

Lie, lie, lie. All lies.

"He does a marvellous impression of you, did you know? _'Oh Philip, I love you, I want you, I need you. Don't ever leave me.'_"

"Stop talking, Geoff."

"For someone who fancies himself a poet, you do love a good cliche, brother. How we laughed about it."

"I'm warning you."

And for someone who'd always prided himself on his sound self-preservation instincts, Geoffrey's were nowhere in sight just then.

"Laughing at your folly was satisfying," he said, voice dripping with poison. "Though not as satisfying as fucking him."

The back of his head hit the wall before he even registered Richard moving, by which point it was too late. Geoffrey made to push Richard off, but his brother's hand closed around his throat, pinning him in place.

"Learn when to keep your mouth shut." 

Geoffrey knew perfectly well when to keep his mouth shut. But he was angry, and Richard was standing too close, and John wasn't the only one who only knew how to make bad worse.

"Philip played you like a fiddle," he spat. "And you loved him for it. Who's pathetic now?"

Richard's fingers tightened around his throat, hard and implacable, and Geoffrey's hand darted to his brother's dagger. He managed to draw it only to have his hand slammed against the wall for his troubles. The dagger clattered loudly and harmlessly against the stone floor and Richard kicked it away.

"I told you to stop talking," he said, pressing against Geoffrey to keep him still, gloved fingers never easing their grip. "I hope you found that satisfying, because clever it wasn't."

Geoffrey clawed at Richard's wrist with his free hand, trying to force him to let go, but that only made Richard squeeze harder, his body a solid, immovable mountain against Geoffrey. He wouldn't kill him. Geoffrey knew that even as it became harder and harder to remember it. A moment became another, became one more, and Richard didn't ease up or backed off or let go, and Geoffrey couldn't move or breathe or do anything but struggle uselessly until he couldn't even do that. 

Panic clawed at him as his vision darkened around the edges, and he clutched Richard's wrist, too winded even to keep fighting. 

The sudden influx of air when Richard finally loosened his grip caused Geoffrey to dissolve into a coughing fit and almost fall to his knees. He would've, except Richard had yet to step away and Geoffrey had nowhere to fall to.

"Now," Richard said, his thumb gently rubbing up and down the side of Geoffrey's neck, his left arm looped around Geoffrey's side to keep him up. "Let's start over. Say, 'I'm sorry, Richard.'"

"Go to hell, Richard," he said, the words almost unintelligible. 

"Say, 'I'm done being daddy's little attack dog.'"

Geoffrey tried to shove his brother off, but Richard only tutted at him, shifting his thumb to press down lightly on the hollow of Geoffrey's throat — a silent, expressive, effective threat.

"Stop fighting me. You're no match for me and you know it. Not in here, not in the field, not anywhere."

"Keep saying that and one day you'll say it to the sharp end of my sword."

It came out strained and hoarse. It came out hollow. Threats were not best made with one's back against the wall. 

Richard clearly didn't think much of it. He smirked, ducking his head, his breath warm on Geoffrey's skin and his voice low and intimate as he said, "Will I? I doubt it. You were always second best, little brother. Second best to me, second best to Hal. Ask our father and he'll be the first one to tell you you're second best to John, too. However many of us there were, you were always dead last. Daddy dearest might send you to fight his wars, but if you were to die in the field, do you think Henry would weep for you?"

Maybe not. But Geoffrey wasn't dead yet. He wasn't dead yet and he'd never once fought anyone's wars but his own, and Henry could burn in hell for all he cared. And Richard could burn right alongside him. 

"Why did you come, Richard?" he asked, soft and dangerous. He didn't need a sword.

"I've told you why."

"You did. And yet. It's a long way to come to make empty threats, brother."

Richard's fingers flexed around his throat. "You think they're empty?"

"I think you could've sent a messenger or a courier pigeon or an army. I think you wanted an excuse to come knocking on my door, and I think I handed you a convenient one."

"You're wrong."

"I don't think I am. Tell me, Richard, did you spend long nights thinking about what happened at Chinon?"

"Nothing happened at Chinon that we'll be repeating."

Geoffrey smiled, relaxing against the wall. "That's not an answer, brother. I think you _have_ spent long nights thinking about what happened at Chinon. I think you've lain awake in bed picturing my lips around your cock, growing hard at the mere thought of it. I think you've brought yourself off thinking of fucking me and I think you wanted to do more than just think about it."

Richard's fingers tightened around his throat and Geoffrey's heart sped up, but though his brother's grip grew tight enough to bruise, it didn't grow tight enough to stop him breathing. 

"One day that tongue of yours will be your undoing," Richard said warningly, pressing closer against him, his right leg stepping onto the space between Geoffrey's legs, his hardening cock unmistakable against Geoffrey's hip. 

Tilting his head up to meet Richard's eyes, Geoffrey smirked.

"You like the things I can do with my tongue." 

"So you're a skilled whore. Is that something to be proud of?"

Maybe it was or maybe it wasn't, but only a fool chose not to press what advantages he had, whatever those advantages might be.

"Does your confessor know what a depraved creature you are, Richard?" 

"Stop talking, Geoff." Richard's lips brushed his, a light, teasing touch, and Geoffrey tried to follow the movement, but Richard's gloved fingered around his throat stopped him.

"How many Pater Nosters for Chinon? How many Hail Marys for this right here?" Geoffrey angled his hips forward to press harder against Richard's cock, and his brother slammed him back against the wall, thumb pressing down on the hollow of his throat.

"I told you to stop talking," Richard said, the last thing Richard said before his lips were on Geoffrey's and his hand squeezed hard. Geoffrey instinctively sucked in a breath only for Richard's tongue to fill his mouth in a hungry, punishing kiss. Geoffrey kissed him back, trying to stay still, trying not to struggle, but he couldn't help whimpering against Richard's lips after a moment, his lungs burning with the need for air. Richard loosened his grip and broke the kiss, and Geoffrey clung to him lest he meant to step away. He didn't, but leaned his forehead against Geoffrey's as they both struggled to catch their breath. The sound of their breathing filled the room, louder to Geoffrey's ears than the voices and laughter that drifted in through the narrow windows. 

"Get down on your knees," Richard said, and Geoffrey huffed out a laugh.

"Ask me nicely."

Richard turned his face, his lips brushing Geoffrey's cheek. "Get down on your knees or call for help, little brother. These are your options."

Geoffrey had never done well with ultimatums; none of Henry's children ever had. They were a contrary lot, far too given to cutting off their noses to spite their faces. It was true of Hal, the only one who could've been called sweet-tempered in a family more inclined towards viciousness than sweetness; it was true of Richard, whose keen military mind knew that sometimes it was necessary to lose a battle to win a war; and it was true of Geoffrey, who was clever enough to know better. None of them did well with ultimatums or warnings or orders, and Geoffrey didn't either, but he followed this one without thought, almost losing his balance when Richard stepped back to let him lower himself to his knees. 

His brother loomed over him, caging him in against the wall. "Get to work, princeling," Richard said, his shadow falling over Geoffrey. And at any other time, Geoffrey might have resented it — the order, the tone, the ham-fisted symbolism of being in Richard's literal shadow — but he wanted this and he wanted Richard, and sometimes — seldom, very seldom, just now — he didn't mind being told what to do.

And besides, Geoffrey thought as Richard's breathing shifted and changed in time with the stroke of his fingers, with the touch of his tongue, this was power right here. 

* * *

Noise drifted in through the narrow openings overlooking the main hall — laughter and loud voices and the clinking of metal — and if Richard focused on it, really focused on it, he could almost ignore the raspy sounds of his own laboured breathing. He struggled to remain silent. Giving in felt like giving up, like a sign of weakness, like an admission of guilt, as if by keeping quiet he might abdicate any responsibility for what was happening. Geoffrey was nothing more than a dark shadow at his feet, nothing more than rough, calloused hands and a hot, wet mouth — not until he looked up, anyway, and then he was fully human again, a glint in his eyes, a familiar smirk on his lips. Then he was fully himself. He ducked his head, taking Richard's sack in his mouth and stroking his leaking cock with devious, clever fingers, and Richard groaned despite himself. 

They were both of them guilty; they were both of them to blame.

Wet heat engulfed his cock when Geoffrey took it in his mouth, and Richard barely managed to hold back the urge to thrust. His brother's eyes were closed as he bobbed his head, his lips obscenely stretched around Richard's girth. The sight was a familiar one. Richard had seen it again and again — visions and memories and dreams sent from hell to tempt him. How well they'd succeeded. 

Removing his right glove, Richard touched his fingers to Geoffrey's head, a feather-light touch that made Geoffrey's rhythm falter. He half-opened his eyes before sighing and closing them again, his fingers tightening on Richard's trousers as he tried to take more of him in his mouth. He choked the second Richard's cock hit the back of his throat and pulled back hastily, a flush spreading across his skin as he coughed and struggled to catch his breath. 

Richard chuckled, burying his finger's in Geoffrey's hair, gently scratching his scalp. 

"You always were an eager little thing." Eager for attention, eager for praise, eager to please. Of all of them, Geoffrey had always been the one with something to prove. He simply hid it well under all the venom. Richard tightened his grip when Geoffrey made to shake him off. "Behave, princeling. We're trying that again. Hands behind your back. Eyes on me." Sullen animosity chased embarrassment across Geoffrey's expression, but he did as he was told, his blush deepening when Richard said, "Open your mouth and stick out your tongue. That's it." Holding his cock, Richard touched it lightly to his brother's tongue, ran it slowly over his brother's lips. God in heaven, they'd both burn in hell for this. "What do you think your men would say if they could see you now?" he asked, as if Geoffrey's shame might erase his own. "If they could see their duke on his knees, sucking cock like a common whore?" Geoffrey glared and made to pull back, but Richard tightened his grip further and held him in place. "The question was rhetorical, princeling."

He pushed himself in slowly, filling Geoffrey's mouth with measured, unrelenting deliberation. "God, that mouth of yours." Richard pushed in as far as he could and then kept pushing, his control hanging by a thread at Geoffrey's soft sounds of distress, at the indescribable feeling of his brother's throat swallowing convulsively around the tip of his cock. Geoffrey choked and panicked and his arms shot up, but he forced them back behind his back almost immediately, clasping his hands together and closing his eyes shut. 

"That's it, little brother. Easy. Let me." Richard held Geoffrey in place for another moment and then for one more before pulling back. "There. Breathe, Geoff. That's it. Open your eyes, look at me. Look at me, little brother." Geoffrey's eyes were red and unfocused as he looked up at Richard, his breathing ragged and uneven. Richard almost spilled right then. God have mercy on them both.

He thrust in and out of his brother's mouth with short, shallow thrusts, trying to make himself last, but knowing he wouldn't. As his urgency grew, his thrusts grew faster and deeper and more erratic. His left hand joined his right on Geoffrey's head, keeping him still while he fucked his mouth with little consideration for his comfort and none for his pleasure. Geoffrey's muffled whimpers and choking sounds were loud enough to drown out the noise from the outside, but his hands remained firmly clasped behind his back. He let Richard do as he pleased, breathing when Richard let him, enduring it when he didn't. He closed his eyes again and Richard allowed it, too lost in chasing his own pleasure to care. 

He finally spilled with a muffled groan, his cock buried deep in his brother's throat. Geoffrey instinctively tried to pull away, but Richard kept him where he wanted him, forcing him to take it all.

"You were right," he said in a hoarse voice, holding Geoffrey's face almost to his groin. "I do like the things you can do with your tongue."

Geoffrey whined, struggling against his hold, and Richard finally allowed him to pull back, flinching when cold air hit his softening cock. Geoffrey's coughing and spluttering and loud gasps filled the room, louder even than Richard's own ragged breathing. No other sounds reached them. The peasantry could have been rebelling outside and Richard doubted he'd have noticed. Leaning on the wall for support, he reached for Geoffrey almost absent-mindedly, running distracted fingers through his hair as Geoffrey pressed his forehead against his leg, shoulders heaving. 

He hadn't come here for this. God forgive him, he hadn't.

"We're done here," he said, letting go and stepping away. "I'm not Philip, and I won't overlook your tantrums just because you look good on your knees. We'll settle this on the field if we don't settle it over a peace treaty, but I _will_ take what I came for."

Which wasn't this. God's honest truth, it wasn't. He hadn't come here for this.

"Richard." 

His name sounded broken and gravelly on Geoffrey's lips, and Richard turned despite himself. Geoffrey's face was red and splotchy, his hair a mess where Richard had tugged on it. He was still on his knees, his hands still held firmly behind his back, and if Richard looked too closely or for too long, he wouldn't be able to walk out.

"We're done here," Richard repeated, the only thing he could say, and turned on his heels and left before he changed his mind.


	2. nothing like the sun

It was late in the evening and all of Nantes was fast asleep. All save Richard, who couldn't get his mind to slow down enough to relax, let alone sleep. He shouldn't be in Nantes still; he shouldn't have been in Nantes at all. He could not begin to explain why he'd come, except that after months of torturing himself with what had happened at Chinon, he'd meant to prove once and for all — to himself, to God — that he was stronger than the weakest parts of himself. As it turned out, he wasn't. Not even close.

He poured himself the last of the wine and snapped at his squire to go fetch another flagon, or did he expect the skies to open up and wine to rain down on them?

Young Bernard bowed and slipped away without a word, no doubt recognising the wisdom of making himself scarce. His lord had been in a mood the entire day, and the boy doubted Breton wine could greatly improved matters. The sooner they left this accursed place, the better.

Richard would have agreed with the sentiment. He'd meant to leave at first light, but first light had come and gone, the day had come and gone, and still he'd remained. He'd inspected his brother's defences and surveyed his brother's forces, and told himself he had good reason to linger, a solid reason, a reason other than the forlorn look on Geoffrey's face the night before. 

He'd instructed his men to ask questions and make friends and gather information while he made himself visible throughout the day, walking the ramparts and spending time in the training grounds — a pointed reminder to anyone who saw him that John Lackland wasn't Duke Geoffrey's only brother, nor the one likely to succeed their father, whatever plans King Henry might have for his useless last-born son. Knocking John down on his ass during a practice bout was satisfying. Geoffrey's thunderous look at the sight was more. 

Geoffrey had made no comment regarding Richard's continued presence in Nantes, nor had he shown any sign that anything out of the ordinary had happened the night before. He was Geoffrey as Richard knew him — acerbic, caustic, sharp, with clever quips and cutting words. And if his comebacks were a fraction too slow or his barbs a touch too clumsy, Richard knew enough to know that Geoffrey was as helpless as a viper and just as harmless. Whatever vulnerability he displayed, however subtly delivered, it was all an act designed to play him. Richard knew it as sure as he knew his brother. He knew it and he didn't forget it. 

But then at dinner, Geoffrey turned his head to look at John and his collar shifted slightly, revealing the dark bruising around his neck where Richard's fingers had dug into skin and muscle, and guilt churned in Richard's stomach — guilt and shame and other things sure to eat away at his soul. That he'd done it at all was shameful enough, but the truth of it was that Richard wanted to see the marks he'd left on Geoffrey. He wanted to see and he wanted to touch and he wanted to make it better and he wanted to make it hurt — just a little, just for a moment, just one more time. 

That's how bargaining went: Just a little. Just for a moment. Just one more time. He'd come all the way to Nantes one "just" at a time. 

And that misbegotten, misguided thing with Philip had been bad enough. This was worse, and not just because Richard had believed Philip perfection incarnate, whereas he knew Geoffrey to be a snake. Stupidity aside, as sins went it was worse. Wasn't it?

A priest would say yes, no doubt. His lady mother would tell him to forget about the immorality of the thing and to focus on the stupidity of it, for that was the one likely to come back to haunt him. There was some truth to that.

"More wine, my lord?" 

Richard frowned at his empty cup and then glanced up at Bernard, who stood by the door with a fresh flagon of wine. Did he want more wine? Would more wine make everything better or everything worse and would he know the difference?

"Find out where the chambers of the Duke of Brittany are."

What was one more mistake, after all? He'd crossed the line already, he might as well cross it again. Just a little. Just for a moment. Just one more time.

* * *

Geoffrey closed his eyes and tried to relax as a servant poured more hot water into the large wooden tub. The water wasn't nearly hot enough, his head hurt, his throat was sore and John had been particularly irritating all day long. And as for Richard… Geoffrey didn't want to think about Richard. He just wanted to lie there and feel sorry for himself. 

Forget being king. He'd make John king. That was sure to spite Richard more. And father dearest could look down from Heaven — or up from Hell, as was more likely — and watch his Johnny squander away his precious empire one province at a time. See how well he liked getting what he wanted then.

No more border raids. If Henry didn't want to commit to a full-scale attack on the Aquitaine, that was his mistake. Geoffrey had the men and, with Philip's support, he had the funds. He could be in Poitiers by the end of summer. Before, even, if Richard's barons proved as fickle and treasonous as usual. 

Lifting the cup to his lips, Geoffrey conjured up visions of conquest and bloodshed, and willed them and the wine to warm him up. The tub had been set before the fire and the servants had gone to great lengths to ensure that the water they brought up from the kitchens was almost boiling hot, the way Geoffrey liked. Still he couldn't get warm, hadn't since the night before, when Richard had walked out, leaving him hard and wanting and alone.

That, admittedly, hadn't gone exactly to plan. 

Well, it mattered not. Setting fire to the Aquitaine was sure to warm him up. And in the meantime— 

"More wine," he said, lifting the goblet without opening his eyes. 

He was distantly aware of the door opening and closing, of the soft rustling of clothes, of light footsteps as servants moved about the room. Someone lifted the cup from his hand, someone poked the fire, someone poured another jug of water into the tub. There was movement and whispered words and then there was only silence and the soothing creeping of the flames. It was several moments before Geoffrey remembered his missing wine, several more before he half opened his eyes to check what the delay was. The moment he did, a hand closed around his neck from behind and he instinctively tried to jerk away, water splashing down the sides of the tub at his sudden movement. 

"Settle down," came Richard's voice close to his ear. 

It took Geoffrey a moment to know him, and a moment longer to realise there was no real danger, but his cock twitched even before then, and he hated both himself and Richard for it. 

"Come to wash my back or drown me?" he asked, his heart still hammering in his chest. Of the servants there was no sign.

Richard shifted into view and lowered himself by the side of the tub. "One need not preclude the other."

No, indeed.

"What are you doing here, Richard?"

Richard pulled his hand away and Geoffrey's heart stopped, only to start again when his brother ran his fingers through his hair. 

"We have unfinished business," Richard said.

"Do we?" He certainly did. Though he was shocked Richard cared.

"We do. You've spent weeks burning my fields and pillaging my villages and towns. You owe me, little brother. And I'm not done collecting."

The words went straight to Geoffrey's cock, though if the previous night was anything to go by, it was not a bargain likely to work in his favour. 

"Whatever happened to 'we'll settle this on the field if we don't settle it over a peace treaty'?"

"Oh, we will. But before I empty Brittany's coffers to pay for your little sightseeing tours of the Poitevin countryside, I'm allowing you to pay me in kind. Isn't that generous of me?"

"I'm not your whore."

Richard's grin became predatory. "Aren't you?" Gentle fingers turned into a vice-like grip. "Tell me to leave, then." He leaned over Geoffrey, his breath warm on his skin, and Geoffrey tried to tilt his head up to catch his lips, but Richard's hand on his hair made it impossible to move more than a fraction. "I'm waiting, Geoff," Richard said, nuzzling the side of his face — softly, gently, mockingly. 

"I wish to God you'd been struck dead by the plague."

"No, you don't."

"You may well believe—" 

The words were cut short by Richard's mouth on his — the kiss a brutal, savage thing that felt a little like drowning, a little like coming up for air, as if Geoffrey hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath since Chinon. When Richard pulled back, Geoffrey could taste blood on his lips.

"You were saying?" Richard asked, breathless.

"Do that again." Geoffrey no longer remembered what his objections had been. He only wanted Richard to kiss him again, he only wanted Richard to keep kissing him.

"Hands on the sides of the tub. Keep them there."

Richard could have ordered Geoffrey to stand on hot coals, and just then Geoffrey would have done it. He grabbed the tub, the wood smooth under his hands, and breathed out a sigh when Richard kissed him again, a soft, gentle kiss that felt like a reward. 

Without easing his grip on Geoffrey's hair, Richard trailed the fingers of his other hand down his chest, seeking his right nipple. He rubbed it and teased it and rolled it between his fingers. And then he pinched and Geoffrey moaned against his lips, the sound turning pained when Richard kept increasing the pressure.

"Richard—"

Richard shushed him and pressed another kiss to the corner of his mouth before easing up his grip and rubbing away with the sing with the pad of his thumb. 

"You should have taken my advice and stayed on your side of the border, Geoff," he said, twisting the nipple cruelly between his fingers. Geoffrey kicked, his yelp muffled by Richard's lips, but he didn't try to pull away and he didn't let go of the tub. 

When Richard finally stopped, Geoffrey's knuckles were white and there was water all over the floor, but his cock was still hard — harder still, in fact, something that did not escape his brother's notice.

"And you call me depraved?" Richard stopped rubbing soothing circles on Geoffrey's abused nipple and reached for his cock, showing no concern for the water soaking his sleeve. Cold fear ran down Geoffrey's spine and he did try to shy away then, but Richard tugged warningly on his hair. "Behave, princeling. I'm not going to hurt you."

"There's a novelty," Geoffrey said, aiming for flippant but failing by a country mile.

Richard chuckled. "You like it when I hurt you."

God help him, he did.

But all Richard did was close his hand around Geoffrey's cock and stroke him with devious slowness, his calloused fingers deliciously rough on the sensitive skin, his grip just the right side of too tight. Geoffrey canted his hips, chasing the movement, and closed his eyes briefly only to open then back immediately when Richard let go and rose to his feet. Ice spread through Geoffrey's veins as his brother moved away, squeezing the water from his sleeve. 

"Stand up."

It took a moment for Geoffrey to hear the words, a moment more for sound to become meaning, and he felt his face heat up when it did. It was an absurd reaction. Soldiers couldn't afford to be precious about modesty, and it's not as if the water had been doing a stellar job of covering anything. Still, Geoffrey couldn't help but feel self-conscious as he rose to his feet, naked and hard, while Richard looked on appraisingly, still fully dressed. 

Richard looked his fill, his gaze a heavy, tangible thing up and down the length of Geoffrey's body. After a moment, he nodded to himself and grabbed a towel a servant had left over the back of a chair.

"Dry yourself up," he said, throwing it at Geoffrey, "and get on the bed, on your knees."

Contrary to popular belief, Geoffrey was perfectly capable of doing as he was told when it suited him, and he did so on this occasion while Richard rummaged through two large chests until he found what he was looking for. 

"We're going to play a game," Richard said, climbing on the bed behind him and dropping a jar on the blankets. He wrapped his arms around Geoffrey's middle and pulled him back against him, and Geoffrey widened his stance to make space for Richard, flinching at the cold, wet sleeve against his skin. 

"How do I win?" he asked, leaning his head back against his brother's shoulder, letting Richard's body heat warm him up.

Richard kissed his temple. "_You_ don't."

"Hardly gives me much incentive to play, does it?"

Wrapping his fingers firmly around Geoffrey's cock, Richard lowered his voice. "I don't know. Does it?"

Thinking had already been difficult with Richard's body pressed against him, with his lips tickling his ear as he spoke, and it now became utterly impossible as he slowly stroked Geoffrey's cock with practised fingers. 

"Does it, Geoff?" Richard repeated, a smile in his tone.

"So, a game," Geoffrey managed to say in a strangled voice, followed by a noise of protest when Richard let go of his cock. 

"A game." Seizing Geoffrey's hands, Richard pulled them slightly back, placing them on his own thighs. Geoffrey could feel Richard's hard cock against his ass, even through the thick fabric of his trousers. "These are the rules. All you have to do is keep your hands here and not move them. You let go, you lose and everything stops and I walk out. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Keep them there."

Reaching for the jar he'd dropped on the bed, Richard opened it one handed. The smell of the salve hit Geoffrey's nose, strong and sickly sweet. Richard dipped his fingers inside and rubbed some of it over his palm and fingers before wrapping his arms around Geoffrey's torso, under his arms, and closing his fingers around his cock once more. 

"Remember," he said, the words vibrating against the curve of Geoffrey's neck. "Don't let go."

Geoffrey had not the least intention of letting go. He kept his hands where Richard had placed them, trying to keep breathing and struggling not to move his hips in time with Richard's strokes. 

"Does that feel good?" Richard asked, increasing the pressure slightly, his fingers warm and steady and slick with the salve. 

"Y—Yes."

"I told you I wouldn't hurt you."

There was a trap there. Geoffrey could hear it, even if he couldn't yet see it. 

He rumpled the fabric of Richard's trousers between his fingers, trying hard to keep silent and to keep still as Richard tried equally hard to make both of those things impossible. Richard proved the more determined one of the two, and it wasn't long before Geoffrey's soft moans and heavy breathing filled the room, and the only thing keeping him anchored down was Richard's solid form under and around him. 

Heat pooled deep inside him, tighter and tighter, but just before Geoffrey reached his peak, Richard pulled his hand away and it was all Geoffrey could do not to shout in frustration. He dug his fingers into Richard's thighs, trying to focus, trying to remember not to let go.

"Why?" he asked, the sound barely a word. 

"It's a game, remember?" 

Geoffrey could've killed Richard for the mockery in his tone, except his hands were otherwise occupied. 

Laying a palm flat against Geoffrey's stomach, Richard chuckled and lifted his other hand to tease a sensitive nipple. "Breathe, Geoff," he said. "In and out." He kissed the side of his neck. "How's your throat?"

"Now you care?"

Richard pinched the nipple between his fingers, pressing down hard, and Geoffrey flinched. "I asked you a question, princeling."

"Fine. It's fine. Richard—"

"There. Was that so difficult?"

Relaxing back against his brother, Geoffrey let out a breath that became a soft moan when Richard trailed light fingers down the length of his cock and cupped his balls in a grip tight enough to feel threatening yet lax enough to feel good. 

"I did spend long nights thinking about what happened at Chinon," Richard said, the words soft and low, just for Geoffrey. He rolled Geoffrey's balls between his fingers, the pressure just right. "Nights spent awake thinking of you naked in my bed, thinking of fucking you, thinking of this right here. Hell sent you to drive me mad, little brother." He pulled slightly on Geoffrey's scrotum, the pressure going from perfect to too much in the space of a heartbeat, and Geoffrey whimpered. He tilted his head to the side, seeking Richard, who kissed him lightly on the forehead, on the tip of his nose, on his lips, before finally easing his grip. "Breathe," he whispered, his fingers soft and gentle as they touched and rubbed and squeezed. 

"Kiss me," Geoffrey said, the order coming out a plea. There was an amused edge to Richard's grin, but he obliged, his lips warm and familiar on Geoffrey's. The ache in his scrotum was all but forgotten when Richard wrapped his fingers around his cock once more — the pleasure light and easy, building steadily like an incoming tide. 

Resting his head back against Richard's shoulder, Geoffrey moved his hips to meet Richard's downstrokes, seeking to increase the speed, chasing his pleasure. Richard allowed it, unusually indulgent, and Geoffrey could almost taste his orgasm when Richard let go.

"No!" His hips kept moving of their own volition, finding nothing but air, and it took Geoffrey several moments to claw back some self-control. "Damn you to hell," he said, when he could trust himself to speak. "What's even the point?"

Richard ran his nails down Geoffrey's flank, the blunt pressure almost a relief, giving him something to focus on other than his own frustration.

"The point, princeling," Richard said, "is that you're mine to do with as I please. And this pleases me. Do you wish to forfeit?"

Geoffrey tightened his grip on Richard's thighs, as if he might let go by accident. 

"I wish to God I'd been an only child."

Richard laughed and flicked Geoffrey's nipple for that piece of insolence. When he reached for his cock again, Geoffrey groaned and closed his eyes, trying to brace himself.

* * *

Richard shushed Geoffrey, kissing his temple and keeping a steadying hand on his stomach. He was shaking in his arms, his breathing ragged and strained, his cock leaking and flushed an angry red. They'd been at it for a veritable age, and though Geoffrey hadn't let go yet, Richard didn't see how he could last much longer without either coming or entirely falling apart. Richard himself couldn't last much longer. His knees were killing him for kneeling for so long, Geoffrey half on top of him, and he was harder than he'd ever been in his life. One might wonder who he was really torturing with this.

Holding Geoffrey's cock, he drew small circles over the head, spreading the moisture over the sensitive skin and listening to his brother's strangled moans and plaintive little whimpers.

"I've— I've learned my lesson," Geoffrey said, his voice breaking. "I'm never— never going near the Aquitaine again. I promise. I give you my word. I'll burn all the maps. No one will ever find it again. John couldn't find it _with_ a map. He'll be hopelessly lost. Richard, please."

Biting back a smile, Richard ran his fingers along his brother's cock in one long stroke that dragged desperate, delicious little moans out of Geoffrey. 

"No more meddling?"

"No more meddling. No more interfering. No more… No more…" Geoffrey stopped, lost for another synonym, which must surely be a first.

"No more plotting with Henry?" Richard supplied, increasing the speed of his hand. "No more siding with John? No more trips to Paris?"

"None of it. None of it. Please, Richard. Please, oh God."

Taking pity on Geoffrey, Richard finally stopped toying with him, and kept stroking his cock faster and harder until he finally came with a half-choked sob. Richard stroked him through it, milking all his release out of him until there was nothing left, until Geoffrey was utterly spent, until his moans of pleasure turned pained and distressed. And then Richard kept going — out of mischief or petty malice or idle curiosity as to how long Geoffrey could bear it, _if_ he could bear it, or whether it was possible to drag another orgasm out of him so soon on the heels of the first.

Geoffrey's hands flexed frantically on his thighs and he tried to shy away, but there was nowhere for him to go. His _"Thank you, thank you, thank you,"_ turned into, _"Richard,"_ turned into, _"No, please,"_ turned into, _"I can't. Please."_

"You can," Richard said, tightening his arm across Geoffrey's chest to keep him still, his other hand never slowing down on his cock. "You can, sweetheart. Just keep breathing, Geoff. Just—"

Something finally snapped inside Geoffrey and he made a desperate grab for Richard's hand to still it. 

And Richard, true to his word, immediately let go. 

* * *

Richard let go and Geoffrey was cast out at sea. The half a heartbeat of relief at the sudden stillness was immediately buried under an avalanche of guilt and regret and frantic, panicked anguish. He tried to put his hands back where they should be — where he should have left them — desperate to fix it, but Richard shifted under him, moving away, and it was all Geoffrey could do not to sob. 

He was barely aware of the string of apologies and justifications and pleas falling from his lips, and his sluggish brain could not keep up with anything Richard was saying. All that he knew, all that he understood, was that he had failed, that there had been one rule, one simple rule, and he hadn't managed to follow even that. He'd failed and everything was ruined and Richard would leave, again, and it was his fault, it was all his fault for not following one simple rule.

Movement on the bed drew his attention and he grabbed Richard's tunic, tightening his grip, alarmed, when the world tilted suddenly on its axis. 

"Easy." Richard laid him down on the bed and lay down half on top of him, his leg a comforting weight over his. "It's all right, Geoff. You're all right."

Pulling the blankets over them, Richard shushed him and whispered reassurances, and ran steady, familiar fingers over the bridge of his nose, down the side of his face, through his hair, down his back, until slowly, slowly, the world sharpened back into focus and Geoffrey's panic gradually subsided under a rising tide of mortification. He turned his face onto Richard's chest. If he never came up for air again, everything would be fine.

Richard, that paragon of contrariness, chose to be contrary even now. 

"Stop hiding," he said, running steady fingers through Geoffrey's hair. "Look at me." But Geoffrey didn't want to look or speak or move. Ever again. "Now, princeling." The gentle tug on his hair didn't even do him the courtesy of having any real bite behind it. 

"I hate you," Geoffrey said, tilting his face to look up at Richard, who chuckled.

"There you are."

"Hell sent me to drive you mad? Hell sent you to plague me."

"From the devil we come, little brother," Richard quipped, a flippant reference to an old family tale that he'd not find half as amusing come morning. Geoffrey could still feel the smile on Richard's lips when he kissed him, though, soft and sweet. "You lost," Richard added, the words warm on Geoffrey's skin. 

"You cheated."

"Maybe." Richard pulled the blankets back and ran a hand down Geoffrey's chest, along the curve of his hip, over his buttocks, and Geoffrey leaned into him, seeking reassurance, seeking approval. "But I won, nevertheless. And to the victor, princeling, go the spoils of war."

There was no arguing with that logic, even had Geoffrey any desire to. He reached up, burying his fingers in Richard's hair and pulled him down for another kiss, spreading his legs to accommodate him when Richard rolled over him. 

* * *

The fire had burned down to embers and the sky outside was starting to lighten when Geoffrey was startled awake by the bed shifting under him and his pillow moving of its own accord. It took him a second to realise it was Richard getting up. 

"Go back to sleep," Richard said, and would've got up without another backwards glance, but Geoffrey grabbed his sleeve before thinking better of it, his mind still slow and sluggish from sleep.

Richard looked back down at him and sighed, sitting back on the bed and leaning over Geoffrey to press a kiss to his lips. 

"Go back to sleep," he repeated softly, turning his face to kiss the hand Geoffrey had placed on his cheek. 

"Stay." Geoffrey had long ago stopped asking for the things he wanted — he never got them, anyway — but he asked now, drowsy and warm and content enough to be shameless. 

"The servants will be up soon," Richard said, but lay down next to Geoffrey pulling him closer against him. 

Geoffrey hadn't thought about the servants before and he didn't worry about them now. He was pleasantly sore and thoroughly well-fucked and a royal prince. He'd never once cared about the opinions of hirelings and he wasn't about to start now. Closing his eyes, he let the sound of Richard's breathing and the soothing feeling of his fingers running through his hair slowly pull him back under.

He was almost asleep when Richard's voice woke him up. "We can't do this again."

He'd heard _that_ before. Turning his head just enough to press a kiss to Richard's chest by way of acknowledgement, Geoffrey did not bother to argue, but settled more comfortably against his brother and pulled the blanket more closely around the both of them. Words were wind, and he bore the marks of how well Richard stuck to that particular resolution. 

And besides, Philip's birthday was in the summer, and Geoffrey bet he could improve on the golden chalice he'd given him the year before.


End file.
